I try to write over all language problems, because I can't do it anymore, to think stringently.
My right hemisphere is in bad shape. That it is serious, I notice it, that I no longer have balance when standing. So I want to describe a personal chronic lockdown, but I'm threatened by the final physical knockeddown again. It is, as if I were writing with a small remnant of my memory, to think, walk, showers. A small remaining area, the me from the abyss, Stroke, Idiocy, Paralyzes, Brain death, etc., everything that is threatened or out of order, provisorischverschont. It is, like drinking, and, up to the neck first, then up to the nose….
My brain has never been affected to this extent before. Now it is triple-clad and insulated. I walk in a cage and I can do things, that surround me, not seen. As much as I strain my eyes, the visual acuity does not come back, the focus stays off, since my brain is inflamed. It is: like double, be triple separated, his body-brain is no longer linked. Slows down perception. I think about animals, that are contracting, crawl into one place, hidden, in agony or pain.
This disease leads to death. But I alone know. The, who are responsible for sick bodies, are blind and clueless. Because this disease just doesn't appear in their training. What a strange Kafkaesque situation!!!
It's a strange dance on the moon. awakening; and the balance is gone. awakening: and you see yourself in the mirror only ten centimeters. awakening: and you don't know, are you finally gaga, verblödet. Did you wet your pants?. Which muscle functions have given up over night?. What nerves, Vessels are attacked by new autoimmune processes.
So you don't have to scream for help anymore. To feel, that fatal processes are going on in the brain, is a completely different caliber, as inflammation and malfunctions in the body. It is, similar to the heart, an arrow in the middle of yours “Belief”. It is from there that homeostasis takes place. How amazingly beautiful it would be, to be human, Who wakes up and just broke his leg. To know, that the break grows together, that a doctor will mend the leg, a visible plaster of paris, as a sign of hope. As an indication. A feeling of being in good hands, Handshake, encouraging.
It's so hopeless.
Although this is an individual disease and those affected by different “Put” fight, I cannot understand the public optimism. Nothing has changed in five years. Not so, that we could use it physically.
I tried anyway, to shower me today, in my handicapped accessible bathroom.
I've put on light blue jeans with a fringed hem and a black long-sleeved shirt with a Carmen neckline.
I have two golden butterflies on my ears. But they can't make me happy.
To endure it in your 20sqm small dungeon, Natascha Kampusch began to paint the family trees of her relatives on the walls. She also enumerated all the objects in her head, which were in their former nursery. As the “Perpetrator”, like she prikopil in her book “3096 Days” is called, one day takes her on a drive and she sees people in a shop for the first time, she believes, this world is an illusory world and an imagination of itself.
Natascha Kampusch asks her perpetrator after a few months of imprisonment, to hug her.
To be less afraid.
Maybe Kampusch, to survive death, in her eight years imprisonment, embracing death.
(5.5.21)